


Pendulum

by DollyPop



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Canon Era, Canon Het Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Marie has a nice butt, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 18:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6969052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DollyPop/pseuds/DollyPop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fuck propriety.</p><p>He just couldn't look away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pendulum

The couches were a good idea. 

Yes, he despised the color of them, so garish and wincingly bright, and he also highly disliked the fact that they took up almost all of what had once been nothing but clear chair room. In fact, he had a lot of laments about those couches. He could probably write an entire dissertation on the subject.

 However, if there was one thing those couches were good for, it was for dropping things.

When he heard the rummaging, he had thought nothing of it. Marie often bumped into things due to her blind spot, and he was certain that she could fend for herself against the coffee table. Even when he heard the curse, he was determined to finish his cigarette in relative peace and stare at the blank computer screen, willing words to appear.

Words never appeared.

He sighed, cracking his neck and throwing his arms over his head, listening to the pop of his shoulders as they loosened. 

Though, how he could hear anything at all over the sound of Marie’s rustling, he didn’t know. It was going on for far longer than usual. What in Death’s name was she doing?

Swiftly, with the grace of a drugged giraffe, he kicked off from his desk, adjusting the angle so he would, hopefully, not fall over this time. 

No such luck. The doors were no problem, as his back collided with them, throwing them open, and for a single moment, he thought he would finally be victorious.

The door-edge tripped up his wheels, however, sending him flat on his back with his legs dangling off his chair, his glasses going slightly askew. He’s heard it said that doing the same thing multiple times and expecting different outcomes were what the true definition of insanity was.

He begs to differ.

He tried adjusting his angle by at least 3 degrees to the left.

Regardless, he adjusted his glasses, blinking a few times as he took in the scene. Marie hadn’t even turned around at the commotion he made, too accustomed to his antics after living with him for months in the present and for years in the past, when they were originally partners.

He didn’t remember her looking like  _that_  back when they were 16, though.

She had, he assumed, dropped something beneath her (she would insist _their_  but, truly, it was  _her_ ) couch, and it must have rolled because she was on hands and knees, stretching her arm under the small space underneath the couch to try to reach whatever it was. She had moved the coffee table out of the way, and she had her cheek pressed to the upholstery in efforts to reach farther.

She had short limbs due to being so, well, short, and he supposed it would be decent of him to offer his longer reach in aiding her. But.

Butt.

His eyes were flicking back and forth, following the motions she made as she wiggled, trying to find those extra few centimeters that would ensure that her fingers would skim whatever object, likely a pen or something equally as inconsequential, that had rolled under the couch.

He knew she could just lift it if she really wanted to, so he didn’t offer his help.

Dear Death, it was like a pendulum. Back and forth and back and forth and back and-

“Franken?” she asked, her blind side facing him. “Could you get my pen? Your arms are longer than mine.”

-forth and back and-

“Franken?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes, Marie?”

“Could. . .you get my pen? I dropped it.”

Of course she chose today of all days to slip out her long skirt and find her comfort in her sleep shorts early. Was she swaying on purpose? Death help him. He’d noticed before, of course. It was hard not to. Marie “More Curves Than a Racetrack” Mjolnir, as Spirit often dubbed her, would be hard  _not_  to notice. Her ass was, according to Spirit, “mesmerizing”.

He can safely say, from his newfound position, that Spirit might just be on to something.

“Stein? Are you okay? Did you hit your head or something?” Marie asked, slight concern coloring her voice. He must have been silent for a tad too long, and he swallowed hard.

“Hm? Oh. No.”

“…then, my pen?” she asked again.

This time, when she curled her spine, arching, trying to reach farther, he was certain she was doing it on purpose. 

Death  _help_  him.

“Yeah…Yes. Yes. Of course.”

Those couches were  _definitely_  a good idea. 


End file.
